


Exhibit April

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things he'll remember and things that he won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhibit April

Roman doesn't like birthdays, never has, and he doesn't like to remember them, and usually he doesn't.

 

He will remember this one – mostly – because things happened that are worth remembering, and because it was so close to the end. Or _an_ end, anyway.

 

In many ways it's like always, just some stupid day in April, just that weekend he's been dreading because Jenny will want to party and there will be stupid cards with stupid age-related jokes, and everyone will think they're being so witty when they quip about how it's all downhill from twenty. He's told Marc upfront that what he wants – what he _really_ wants – is just to stay in for three days, eating snacks and watching bad telly and having exorbitant amounts of sex, until the date has safely passed.

 

Marc laughed and kissed him and asked if they could start on the sex now and maybe talk about the bad telly later, and Roman said yes, yes, they could, and then they did.

 

There are things he'll remember and things that he won't, because they happened to other people and you can't remember what didn't happen to you, and sometimes – often, later – he wishes he didn't remember things that happened to himself, but he can't ever quite bring himself to want to forget that birthday.

 

He'll remember that he and Marc have a fight – yes, another one – that week, because one of Marc's friends has his birthday the day after Roman's and is having a party, and Marc wants them to go, and Roman doesn't because he _doesn't want a party, damn it_ , and there'll be people from the team there and they can't know, and Marc is annoyed because _it's just a fucking party, it's not even for you,_ and Roman is annoyed because _this is exactly what I meant when I said stop pushing me,_ and they're both annoyed because these edges they're rubbing are jagged already, and getting sorer by the day.

 

He won't remember – because he's not there, so he couldn't – that Jenny waylays Marc at the dark side of the boards one afternoon; that her shoulders are rigid and her eyes cold and her mouth set in that grim _I want_ Jennifer Steinkamp line. He won't remember that she tells Marc, in a soft, controlled voice, that she'll kill him if he gives Roman any more grief right now, that their damn issues can wait. Marc tells her curtly that it's none of her business, and she leans in then, eighteen and blazing with confidence in her own power, and says that oh yes, it is.

 

He'll remember the parcel that arrives from the Westerwald a couple of days early, the sender's address a messy scrawl and the packaging uncharacteristically untidy, as if it was wrapped in a hurry. Inside is an enormous scarf in his mother's favourite knitting pattern, cobalt blue with just the finest hint of a dusty purple pattern at the edges. The wool is incredibly soft, and when he rubs one end of it against his cheek, he gets a faint whiff of his mother's scent, bergamot and rose hips. The homesickness he thought he was over doesn't hit him straight on; it seeps in sideways, hitching a ride on the wave of that subtle scent and slyly worming its way in deep. Wrapped in the ample folds of the scarf is a small tin can full of his mother's homemade gingerbread cookies, the rich, soft, spicy ones he loves so much that he used to spend all year looking forward to them, because she only ever made them for Christmas. There's no card, but folded carefully underneath the cookie tin is a drawing from Flo: A bright meadow, with flowers and the bulky shapes of cows on the horizon, and in the centre of it, a skinny, broadly grinning figure with both arms and one leg raised in the air, ice skates on his feet despite the earth and grass below. He's wearing a blue and silver costume that looks suspiciously copied from a Superman cartoon, with a flowing cape and a big bold "R" on his chest. Roman traces the determined strokes of the crayons and tries hard not to cry.

 

He won't remember that the night before his birthday Marc comes home from his showcase exhausted and finds Roman curled on the couch, asleep despite his best intentions to wait up for him. In the quiet of night, Marc sits on one end of the sofa, not close enough to disturb, and watches him for the better part of an hour, eyes tracing the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his lashes, measuring the slope of his shoulders and the furtive curl of his toes, making an inventory of him. As midnight ticks by on their cheap wall clock, Marc leans forward and curves a hand protectively around the arch of Roman's bare foot and whispers, too low to be heard, "Happy birthday."

 

He'll remember that the day itself is the day Marc has to present his choreography showcase to the BDE, so he rolls out of bed early after a sleepy happy birthday blowjob, and is gone all day. He'll remember – because she's always impossible to forget – that Jenny swans in just as he's getting ready for his own training, and instead drags him off for a champagne brunch at her favourite café. She casually presents him with a Gucci belt and what looks like five years' supply of his favourite cologne, the one he hardly ever buys for himself because it's so expensive. Then she proceeds to bitch out and dissect the legion flaws of the two guys she's currently dating, in between complaining about her parents and her new trainer and the incompetence of the seamstress who's supposed to be customising her costume. Roman listens and nods and comments at length while munching on expensive hors d'oeuvres and thinks, warmly, how much he loves her for making it all about her.

 

He won't remember – because it's gross and he's determined not to – the miserable hours after he gets home in the early afternoon, sloshed out of his head from two bottles of champagne after his months of careful dieting, when he throws up the too-rich food, brushes his teeth obsessively because he hates the taste of vomit, then throws up again. He won't remember the dreams he has after he exhaustedly falls asleep; dreams in which his father rants and snarls and threatens and chases him across a crayon meadow, riding a crayon cow, while Roman tries to run away but gets tangled in his superhero cape and gets stuck in the bare earth with his superhero skates.

 

He will remember feeling better in the evening, and taking a shower and changing his clothes and spending ten minutes staring at his face in the mirror, searching for wrinkles. He'll remember the bathroom door opening and Marc suddenly being there, arms wrapped around Roman from behind, his face amused in the mirror next to his, telling him he's a neurotic idiot and he looks about fourteen.  
Then he tells him to wear something nicer because they're going out, and when Roman howls in protest, Marc rolls his eyes and tells him not to worry, no one will know them and he'll enjoy it. Not one for surprises, Roman prods and nags until finally Marc gives in. They're going to see a musical, he declares, firmly, in a tone that brooks no argument. Roman groans and taunts, "A musical? What, are you gay or something?" and for a second – just a second – Marc's smile slips. Then it deepens instead and he puts his hands on Roman's hips and pulls him around so he faces him and says, "No, you twat, just in love," before he kisses him.

 

He'll sometimes remember – and sometimes not – that after that night, when they spill out of the theatre into the cold spring night, laughing and wrapped up in each other's arms and talking musicals and ice shows and whether anyone's ever tried to combine the two, it's the first time in a while – and the last – that they're actually okay.


End file.
